


How To Repair A Chevy Impala

by flawedamythyst



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode: s03e07 Fresh Blood, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-24
Updated: 2007-12-24
Packaged: 2018-10-16 08:48:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10567797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flawedamythyst/pseuds/flawedamythyst
Summary: The Impala breaks down a few hours after Sam worked on it. Dean is not pleased.





	

It started with a faint clonking sound, barely audible over the rain pitter-pattering down on the Impala's roof. Sam didn't even notice until it got louder and developed a high-pitched whining after-tone. By then, Dean was already frowning, sitting forward and griping hard at the steering wheel as if he could feel what was wrong with the engine through the vibrations.

The car didn't stop running until about ten minutes later, when the engine gave a spluttering gasp, and then just died completely without any more warning. Dean let them coast to a stop at the side of the road and tried to turn the engine over, but all that achieved was a desperate-sounding wail. He gritted his teeth, threw a hard glare at Sam, then opened his door and climbed out into the cold drizzle.

Sam followed him out of the car, and watched as he popped the hood open, propped it up, and gave it a long, careful look. Sam found himself hovering just behind Dean, looking at the engine as well as if he'd have any idea what he should be looking for. The fact that Dean hadn't said a word was making him incredibly nervous - he knew how to cope when Dean just started yelling at him, but this cool silence only happened when Dean was really, really pissed.

"Do you know what it is?" he asked tentatively.

Dean ignored him for a moment, then abruptly straightened up. "I'm gonna need my tools," he said, without looking at Sam.

"Right," said Sam, and hurried round to the trunk to get them. He almost slipped over in the slimy mud at the side of the road in his haste, and forced himself to walk back slightly slower. Falling over and dropping the toolkit everywhere was not likely to appease Dean at all.

Dean just grunted when Sam put the toolbox beside him and pulled out a wrench. Sam stood awkwardly for a moment as Dean started to pull off parts off the engine, freezing rain finding its way down the back of his neck. Dean was starting to look like a drowned rat, so Sam went and found one of their umbrellas and held it over him as he worked. Dean didn't acknowledge him, just kept working on the engine in stark silence.

After a few minutes of watching Dean and trying to remember what each part did as Dean fiddled with it, Sam said, tentatively, "Do you know what happened? Was it...was it something I did?"

Dean stopped moving for a moment, and just rested his hands on the edge of the engine, letting his head drop. "Sam, I'm a hair's breadth away from beating you to death with this wrench. If I were you, I wouldn't talk to me right now."

Sam winced at the tone of his voice. "So, it was something I did?"

"Sam," growled Dean, "I'm not kidding."

Sam sensibly shut up.

 

****

 

It took nearly an hour for Dean to get the car running again, by which time it was getting dark and despite the umbrella they were both soaked through and freezing cold. Dean pulled in at the first motel they found and went to check in, still without saying a word to Sam. Sam sighed, gathered their bags up, and stayed quiet as he followed Dean to Room 116.

Dean took his bag and disappeared into the bathroom immediately, and Sam dropped onto a bed and lay back. He wondered how much longer it would be before Dean had calmed down enough to hear Sam's apology, because the silent cloud of anger that surrounded him at the moment was really wearing Sam down.

Dean came out in dry clothes fifteen minutes later, grabbed the car keys and said, "I'm going out. Back later," then left the room.

Sam, who was still lying on the bed in his wet clothes and was starting to shiver, levered himself upright. Time for a hot shower.

Except, as he discovered five minutes later, there wasn't any hot water. He settled for rubbing himself briskly with a towel, which didn't seem to do much except chaff his cold limbs, then pulled on sweatpants and a hoodie and crawled into bed.

His hair was still damp, and he just couldn't seem to get warm, even under the spare duvet from the closet, but eventually he fell into an uneasy sleep.

 

****

 

The next morning, Dean woke him up with a rough shove. "Get up, lazy bones," he said, brusquely, "We've got to go find a garage that carries Impala engine parts."

Sam opened his eyes slowly and blinked. His head felt it was stuffed full of cotton wool, and he was still cold, but it seemed Dean hadn't shaken off his bad mood, so he didn't complain as he dragged on his clothes, adding several extra layers in the hope he'd get warm.

By the time they'd been all over town looking for the part Dean needed, Sam was feeling like shit. Going to sleep last night still cold and with wet hair had clearly been a bad idea if the way he couldn't stop shivering was any indication. His head ached, and it was all he could do to keep up with Dean as he strode angrily from garage to garage.

"Sorry," said the fourth mechanic regretfully, "We don't have that part, but Bill McKenzie over on Oak Avenue might. It's about a twenty minute walk." Sam groaned at the thought of more walking, and felt himself sway slightly. "Say, is your friend okay?" asked the mechanic, concerned.

Dean glanced round at Sam, looking at him properly for the first time that day, and frowned. "Sammy?" he asked, just as Sam felt a wall of black rise up and overtake him.

****

 

He woke up in the mechanic's office, with Dean crouching by his side. "It's okay, Sam," he said, "We're getting a taxi back to the motel, then you can go to bed."

"You sure you don't want an ambulance?" asked the mechanic, sounding worried.

"Nah," said Dean, "It's just the flu. Stubborn bastard just pushed too hard." The look he was giving Sam was concerned though, and Sam knew he was hoping like hell that whatever it was wouldn't develop into something they would need a hospital for.

"I'm okay," he said, but his voice was slurring slightly, and it didn't do anything to dissolve the pinched worried look around Dean's eyes. Sam carefully sat up, rubbing his head. "I'm just so cold," he mumbled.

Dean sighed. "Come on," he said, helping Sam to stand up. "Taxi'll be here soon." He had to practically carry Sam outside to the waiting taxi, and again when they got to the motel, dumping him down on the bed with a groan.

"Jesus, you need to lose weight," he said, but Sam wasn't listening because the edges of the room were blurring, and it felt like the bed was spinning underneath him. He couldn't stop himself from groaning - he hated being sick, feeling so weak and frail. Dean got him a glass of water then sat next to him while he drifted off to sleep.

 

****

 

When Sam woke up, it was dark and Dean was sitting on his own bed, head in his hands.

"Dean?" said Sam, still feeling muzzy, but better than he had before. Dean's head came up, but the look on his face didn't reassure Sam at all.

"You're impossible," he said, a sharp edge of anger to his words. _Oh,_ , thought Sam, ,i>Here comes the outburst. Couldn't he at least wait until I can think straight? "You just..." Dean made a violent gesture with his hands. "You can't take care of the car, you can't even take care of yourself - I take my eyes off you for one day, and you're stupid enough to get yourself sick. Jesus, Sammy."

"I'm sorry," said Sam, too tired to argue, "Sorry about the car. I didn't...I don't know what I did wrong."

Dean sighed. "Yeah, I know. I'll show you when you're better," he said, tiredly. "Unless you do something else stupid and end up in hospital," he added, bitterly.

"Sorry," offered Sam again.

Dean stood up, and paced across the room and then back again. "I just...how can I leave you when you're clearly incapable of looking after yourself?"

"Don't leave then," said Sam, trying to make it sound just that easy.

Dean shook his head, and paced across the room again, not speaking. Eventually he stopped, rubbed his hand over his face, muttered, "I'll get you some Tylenol," and grabbed his coat and keys.

"Dean..." exclaimed Sam, hoarsely, exasperated and wondering why things always had to be this hard for them.

Dean shot him a hard look. "Just stay in bed," he commanded, then swept out the door and disappeared. Sam sighed and relaxed back into the bed.

 

****

 

He must have fallen asleep again waiting for Dean, because the next thing he knew, Dean was nudging him gently awake. "Time for meds, Sammy," he said, and Sam must have looked as shit as he felt because there was a gentle note in Dean's voice that was completely at odds with their earlier argument.

Sam struggled to sit up so he could swallow the pills. Dean put his arm round him, stroked his back softly, and helped him drink some water with them. Sam relaxed back onto the bed with a sigh, his head pressed against Dean's thigh. He was waiting for Dean to move away, the same as he always did, but instead Dean put the glass of water on the bedside table and put his hand on Sam's forehead.

He gave a little, put-upon sigh and muttered, "How can you still be so cold?"

A moment later, he was sliding into bed next to Sam, curling up around him and saying, slightly defensively, "Just until you warm up a bit."

Sam didn't have the energy or the desire to argue or call Dean's bluff, and instead let his eyes slide shut, Dean's warm body pressed comfortingly to his.

 

****

 

He actually felt better the next time he woke up. The room was empty, but Dean came in as Sam was still sitting up. His face was still shuttered tight, and he pursed his lips as he looked Sam over.

"You're looking better," he said, "Think you could manage some food?"

"Yeah," replied Sam, rubbing at his head. Dean nodded and crossed to the motel coffee-making facilities, flicking the kettle on. He had engine oil smeared on his hand, and when Sam glanced out the window, he could see the Impala with her hood up. She was parked so that Dean could see Sam's bed through the window.

"Dean, I really am sorry about the car," Sam started.

Dean snorted. "If you apologise one more time," he said, roughly, "I think I'm gonna go insane."

"You're still pissed at me," Sam pointed out, grimacing

"Yeah," agreed Dean, "But it's okay. It's my fault for over-estimating you." Sam had to bite his tongue at that. Dean brought him over a steaming mug, and Sam took it, then frowned when he saw the contents.

"Chicken soup?" he asked, slightly incredulously.

Dean shrugged. "It's only cuppa soup," he said, slightly defensively. "Anyway, I figured it out."

"What I did to the car?" said Sam, taking a careful sip.

Dean snorted. "No, idiot, I figured that out yesterday. Today I figured out how to teach you how to take care of the car."

Sam took another sip, feeling the soup warming him from within. "Yeah?" he asked.

Dean nodded, and pulled something out of a plastic bag. "This," he said, handing it to Sam, "is a repair manual for a '67 Impala." Sam looked at the book, which had a picture of an Impala with a cut-away section showing the engine on the cover.

"Right," he said, slightly uncertainly.

"I've never needed one," said Dean, "And I forgot you do all your learning from books." He tapped the cover. "You're not going anywhere near my baby again until you've memorised this."

Weirdly, Sam felt relieved by that. That was something he could do easily - study a book until every detail in it was imprinted in his memory, and if it meant he'd have a better idea what he was doing next time Dean let him touch the engine, then so much the better. He traced his finger over the picture of the Impala on the front. "Okay," he said.

Dean smiled for the first time in what felt like days. "And," he said, opening the front cover, "I made a list of all her exact specifications and the modifications I've made to her." There was a long list in Dean's most careful writing inside the front cover, but Sam didn't bother reading it. On the opposite page, there was a short note:

__

_Sam,_  
_Because if you ever screw up my car like that again, I will hunt you down and take you apart,  
_ _Dean._

Sam carefully put his hand over Dean's, where it was still holding the book. Dean twitched slightly, then pulled it away.

"I got another couple of hours of daylight," he said, "I'm gonna finish up the car." Sam nodded, and Dean left again, shutting the door behind him. Sam could see him through the window though, gazing down at the engine for a long moment as if he wasn't seeing it before he grabbed his tools again and carried on with whatever he was doing.

Sam looked back down at the book, and turned another page. _Using a Haynes manual is like having a mechanic in every book_ , it promised. Sam took a deep breath, another sip of chicken soup, and started to read.

 

****

 

Dean made him spend the next day taking it easy as well, but Sam persuaded him that the hunt they were heading to wouldn't wait any longer, and the day after that they checked out. Dean carried Sam's bag out to the Impala for him for the first time since they were kids, but there was still a tight, pinched look around his eyes that Sam took as a warning not to mention it.

Inside the car, he made Sam wrap a blanket around himself before he'd start the engine. "It's cold in here," he pointed out.

Sam blinked in surprise, because that was the closest to Dean admitting the Impala had her faults (like the extremely temperamental heater) that he had ever heard. He tucked the blanket round himself without further comment and Dean nodded with satisfaction and turned the engine over.

Sam sat slumped against the window for a few minutes as Dean headed for the highway, before remembering that he didn't have to just stare into space, and pulled the manual out again. Dean glanced over at him quickly as he opened it, and Sam pretended not to see his eager, curious look.

Dean let him read in peace for only a few minutes before he cleared his throat. "So, what bit you on?" He asked.

"Brake fluid," said Sam, not looking up.

"Huh," said Dean, and was silent for a handful of seconds. "What's it say about it?"

"I don't know, my annoying brother keeps interrupting me," snapped Sam, because if there was one thing he really hated, it was being talked to when he was trying to read.

"Jesus," muttered Dean, "No need to be such a bitch."

Sam ignored him and settled back in to memorising brake system schematics.

 

****

 

They drove for most of the day, stopping briefly at a diner for lunch, where Dean got Sam a hot chocolate as they were leaving. "It'll warm you up," he said gruffly.

Sam dozed off after that, sleepy from the food and warm drink and unable to concentrate on the repair manual anymore. When he woke up, it was raining again, soft, grey drizzle that made the afternoon dark.

"I need to pee," he told Dean, and Dean sighed with exactly the same tone that Dad used to have when they were kids and Sam said the same thing.

"Can't it wait? The next rest stop isn't for ages."

Sam just shrugged. "You're the one that made me drink so much," he pointed out.

Dean grunted in acknowledgement. "Well, it's gonna have to be the woods," he said and pulled over at the side of the road.

He got out at the same time as Sam did, and headed off into the woods as well, although in a slightly different direction. Fucking each other was one thing, peeing together was quite another, and neither of them were willing to cross that line.

Sam got back to the car first, and took a moment to lean against the car and look around. The rain was still falling gently, blocking out every other sound until it felt like there was nothing else in the world except the woods and the empty road.

Dean came back out of the trees a moment later, blinked at Sam, then scowled fiercely at him. "Jesus, Sam, get in the damned car before you make yourself sick again."

Sam rolled his eyes, but opened the door and slid back inside. He rubbed the blanket over his damp face and hair as Dean got back into the driver's seat. His face was shuttered again, jaw clenched as he glared through the front windscreen.

"I'm okay," said Sam, softly, not sure his reassurance would be accepted.

Dean snorted, "Not for long if you keep this up." His grip on the steering wheel eased though, and he sat back. "Should I be getting you a manual for how to take care of yourself as well?"

Sam sighed, and leaned against his window. "I did just fine at Stanford," he pointed out, annoyed by Dean's attitude.

"Yeah," said Dean softly, and there was silence for a while. Sam kept expecting him to start the engine and pull back out and on to the road, but instead Dean just kept sitting there, staring at nothing.

"Besides," added Sam, "you're not going anywhere. I won't let it happen."

Dean shook his head at that, then moved suddenly across the seat to cradle Sam's head in his hands and kiss him. His lips were cold and tasted of rain and Sam was taken by surprise for a moment before he kissed him back, trying to put as much reassurance as he could into it. _We're going to be okay._

Dean pulled back, rested his forehead on Sam's for a moment and let out a tiny breath, then pulled away and sat back behind the wheel. "Let's get going," he said, clearing his throat and starting the engine.

Sam looked away, out at the trees passing them by and the rain dripping down the window. "There are three main methods of bleeding a brake system," he said quietly. "Pump and hold, vacuum and pressure."

Dean looked over at him for a moment, then grinned. "Yeah?" he said. "And how would you do it on this baby?"

Sam smiled to himself, and started to reel off everything he'd read in the manual that morning. He couldn't convince Dean that he was going to save him, and he couldn't reassure him that he would be okay if he couldn't, because there was no way he was going to be okay if Dean died, but he could promise to look after the car. He wasn't going to get it wrong again, not even if it took memorising the whole book and half the internet so that he knew exactly what kind of brake fluid to use and why he should start with the wheel furthest from the master cylinder and everything else there was to know about Chevrolet Impalas. It was the least he could do for Dean.


End file.
